Time, in the White Rose Mansion, was measured in routines, not in days.
Mornings began with the scrape of a wooden sword against a training post, the sound growing steadier, less clumsy, season by silent season.
Afternoons were spent in the library's deep quiet, the heavy tomes of history, geography, and imperial economics slowly yielding their secrets to a mind far older than the boy who turned their pages.
The Duchess, his mother, had approved this accelerated education for her youngest son. Vincent accepted it as he accepted everything: as a tool and preparation.
He ran his laps through the eternal courtyard snow. He meditated, learning to feel the ebb and flow of the aura that now lived in his chest like a second, steadier heartbeat. Train, study, rest.
The cycle was a wheel, and he was both the prisoner and the engine turning it.
The territory's endless winter erased the seasons, blurring one year into the next.
The only true markers of time's passage were the physical ones: the gradual lengthening of his limbs, the deepening of his voice when he spoke to Zero or Sara, the way his old training clothes had to be quietly replaced.
And then, one day, the routine stopped.
A letter arrived, its seal not of the Duchess, but of the Archduke's central Chancery. Zero delivered it without his usual smile.
Vincent read it, the formal words cutting through five years of self-imposed exile. The time for silent preparation was over.
Five years had passed.
The day he had both anticipated and dreaded had finally arrived. Vincent stood in his chamber, dressed for travel, taking a final, measured breath. Five years was gone in the relentless rhythm of routine.
A genuine, hard-won smile touched his lips. He had not missed a single day of training. The result was a body that responded to his will, and a mind that had mastered the fundamental principles of aura: containment, circulation, and perception.
He closed his eyes and let a fine thread of his energy unravel, spooling out through the floorboards.
His mental map of the mansion's first floor lit up: the quiet hum of the maids at their work, the measured tread of the few guards on patrol, and the familiar, brisk energy signature of Sara, moving directly toward his room. He exhaled and opened his eyes, the sense receding.
The progress was undeniable, even accelerated. He had recently advanced to the rank of Adept, a significant step on the path.
The classifications of an aura-wielder were a ladder he was determined to climb:
Novice—>Adept —> Knight —>Master —> Saint.
Each rank widened the spiritual pathways, allowing for greater power and more refined techniques. As an Adept, his aura was now a tangible pool he could feel and shape within him, though projecting it externally—a hallmark of the Knight rank—remained just out of reach. His future Soul Weapon would be the key to channeling it fully.
Still, he thought, flexing a hand and feeling the potent energy coiled in his core, with this foundation, the next steps will come faster.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Come in."
Zero entered, followed by Sara. "Greetings, Young Master," Zero said, his sharp eyes missing nothing.
"Good morning."
"Our Young Master has grown… let's see, perhaps three percent stronger since last year ?" Zero mused, a familiar, teasing glint in his eye. "And he's been practicing the art to peek I hope you don't do any perverted things in the future."
Vincent suppressed a sigh. An asshole, as ever. Some things never changed. The most unnerving constant was that he still couldn't sense even a ripple of Zero's own energy. The man was a void, a silent testament to a strength Vincent couldn't yet fathom.
"Oh, Mister Zero, don't say such things!" Sara chided, her smile warm as she stepped forward. She bowed briefly, then placed a gentle hand on Vincent's shoulder, her voice dropping to a sincere whisper. "When you go to the main house, please be careful. Watch yourself. And… don't accept any food or drink from your siblings."
Vincent met her worried gaze and nodded. "I will be cautious. You don't have to worry, Sara."
"She's right to fuss, but she underestimates you," Zero said, his tone shifting to something almost like approval. "This little devil has a survival instinct sharper than any blade,he won't be eating any poisoned cakes." He paused, and his next words were uncharacteristically direct. "And I will be there. I am his butler, after all."
Zero's gaze returned to Vincent, business-like once more. "Before we depart, meet me at the training ground. I wish to see your progress one last time."
Vincent's smile returned, edged with determination. "Of course."